Tribute
by Rock n' roll addict
Summary: You can take any part of me, but just so you know, I won't go quietly. Set in same time frame as Hunger Games, but all of that never happened


**Disclaimer: **Just so we're clear on this… I'm not Collins.

Whew! Glad that's sorted out!

**Acknowledgement**: Thank you for writing this series. Def so much to think about.

Fortune Favors the Bold... Or It's Just Glorified Chaos

In the poorly lit alleyway between Electrolyte and SkyNet Technologies, is the rustle of Capitol dollar bills being exchanged. Echoes of pattering feet of running street children are amplified on the grimy concrete. Shadows obscure the faces of the peacemakers.

The Head gives out the orders, snarling, "Get 'em."

Have you ever wished that you were someone else? Maybe a little richer? Prettier? Overall, just being more fortunate? Well, that's kind of how I feel right now. Not the prettier part, but the more fortunate part, definitely.

"Split up!" I shout. Suddenly, a group of five peacemakers come tearing down the alley, gaining on our tails. Tristan and Barry both give me looks of affirmation, the streetlights every couple meters catching the gleam in their eyes. At the next fork, I veer right and both of them continue straight. All the while, I'm knocking over trashcans and making as much noise as possible, trying to distract the bastards. Usually peacemakers keep running straight when we pull this move off, but Tristan and Barry both have each other and we've done this a million times. Luckily, Peacemaker uniforms are so stark white that they're easy to track, even in this dim lighting.

"Hey, dumbasses! Over here!" I shout. The usual smell of human urine and fecal matter is masked by the pungent smell of hot garbage on this humid night. Two catch sight of me waving around like an idiot and head in my direction. They're tripping on the mess I've made, one even faceplants into some mystery meat, his face and white uniform smeared with a dark brown goop. He glares at me dangerously, hurrying to get up. Focusing away from the comical scene, I speed up, through the small spaces between the buildings. I take a quick glance back to see if I've lost or gained some distance between us. They just took out their shining, metal batons, made especially for battering. Joy.

_Can't slow down now_. The alleys around the buildings are a concrete maze, creating the perfect way to lose those merciless goons. Every time I see a new left or right, I take it, rushing down the twists an turns. I know these parts like the back of my hand, having lived here my whole life. Their stomping boots behind me is enough motivation to keep up the pace. Soon enough, I don't hear footsteps following me anymore. I leap over a group of kids resting on flattened cardboard boxes. They stir.

I glance back, to see that they're starting to pack up their belongings with frightened looks on their faces, preparing to flee from the peacemakers that might be chasing me. Lucky for them, I'm pretty sure that they've lost my trail. Cautiously, I peek down a few alleys that I just came from to now find them empty. Paper crunches underneath my worn sneakers. I pick up a wrinkled newspaper. The unsoiled area reads the headline "Mayor Mariel Ensures Citizen Safety With 'THE SOLUTION'". I throw the stupid paper down and stomp on it repeatedly, smooshing it even more with the ball of my foot.

In the past few years, street children numbers have reached an all-time high. At least that's what I've heard from some of the passing workers. We don't really mingle with them. I've seen one kicking the stuffing out of a girl probably around twelve years old, yelling at her for being a "poor sack of shit". When I saw that, Tristan told me that the worker did that because he was frustrated about his own life and the Capitol. We're just their outlets.

Only the desperate ones go begging, but it's kind of a hit or miss. Those are the ones who look like skeletons, their cheekbones protruding with their holey clothes just hanging on them. Mostly the workers just ignore you or act like you're the biggest dreg on their lives. Sometimes they either take pity and help the kids out or turn them into a temporary punching bag. It's not pretty. The Capitol has been squeezing more hours out of the workers lately for more updated tech. Everyone there wants the newest communication device, the best everything. It's putting pressure on the workers for mass production and to continue with more innovations for improvement.

It's always been the same to me. The cruelty I see and the overcrowded alleys, they don't care about us. You learn to accept it and just stay away from the workers altogether. I've been doing it for three years. Some of the alleys with the better garbage cans had so many kids crammed in it, there wasn't anywhere to go without stepping on a kid or the makeshift covers they've made for themselves.

I give a hard kick at the newspaper for good measure.

Lately, the numbers have drastically dropped for a few reasons, but the main one's glaring back at me in dark ink. Mayor Mariel campaigned about how we're violent. Pot, meet Kettle. Apparently, we're a nuisance and a danger to the general population. This year, the Mayor of District 3 set a bounty on street children's heads. The peacemakers leapt at the opportunity. I didn't realize this until I saw someone get caught by them, but I did notice that there were less of us.

They tend to go searching for us at night hours to minimize public disturbance. It pissed me off big time that we're being eradicated like rats and each peacemaker wanted to catch the most of us. Rumor has it that those who get caught get brought to the head and executed and that there's about fifty Capitol dollars in for the captors per kid. That adds up to a nice bonus for them. Didn't the workers hear our cries? Did they not care? Or was it that they were too afraid to care?

Maybe, to them, we're an infestation that needs to be cleansed.

It's been about five minutes, and still no Peacemakers in sight. Turning the next corner, I lean against the cool brick of a building and let out a sigh of relief.

I'm just about the head in the direction of our hideout when I get yanked back off my feet. The cleaner peacemaker is holding me up, his fists full with some of the back of my oversized shirt. My ratty shirt tears a little so that I'm only about an inch off the ground. The one who faceplanted inspects me up close, his face wiped on his sleeves makes it seem as if the magic meat was just mud, but I can smell odor of decayed protein. The stench is potent enough to make me want to barf all over his white boots. I stare back at the stinky peacemaker. If he's going to kill me, he's going to have to look at me with all of the fiery hatred I felt toward all of the peacemakers.

My collar's choking me. I claw at it, attempting to let more air down my throat. The corner of Stinky's mouth tugs upward. He pulls back his fist and rams it into my stomach. I collapse, feeling the wall of pain hit me and reverberate throughout my bones. I cough painfully, specks of blood splattering on his uniform.

He's about to go in for another hit. I tense up, but continue to glower at him.

"That's enough," the other peacemaker breaks in, "let's just get this street scum to the Head. Then we'll get you a nice shower."

The orange-sherbert morning light begins to peer through the smog.

Stinky gives me one final look of loathing and then snaps metal cuffs on me. I can only return the look while being shoved all the way to the Justice building. We reach the only building with wooden doors. They're mahogany, at least, that's what Tristan tells me. Don't ask me how he knows all of these nuggets of information.

The building's so imposing. It always reminds me of a monster's face. There are lights on everywhere, giving it an unearthly glow. There's so many windows that it appears like the house has a thousand eyes staring out you, watching your every move. The solid door is expensive-looking and forebodingly tall, probably six of me. It's sturdy so all hope of escape from its mighty jaws is lost.

As soon as we step on the mat, the doors swing open and the peacemakers push me inside, the locks click securely in place. Just before though, Stinky growls in my ear, "Time to meet your maker, bitch."

See what I mean about wishing I were someone else?


End file.
